Page 32 of Miss Delectable
Philippe Deschamps, former officer in the French army, charmer at large, and opportunist without limit.
“We are no longer at war with France, Dylan, and I, for one, am pleased to keep it so.”
“He’s a dead shot, Rye.”
“So am I. Shall we be going? It appears our dear Alasdhair has been taken captive.”
“Dare!” Dylan called. “Leave the lady in peace, or pay her for her time.”
Alasdhair glowered at him. “A moment.” He passed something to the woman—a flash of metal gleamed in the lamplight—and jogged to Rye’s side. “What is the bloody hurry?”
Dylan resumed walking. “We’re out after dark on London’s streets. It’s cold, dark, and miserable, not to mention dangerous.”
“She’s out in the same weather,” Alasdhair said. “Hasn’t eaten for two days.”
She’d eat well within the next hour, would be Rye’s guess, which turned his thoughts in the direction of Miss Ann Pearson, who could rhapsodize about anise hiding beneath other spices, or butter biscuits she could not exactly replicate.
Would Ann Pearson miss him if he moved to France? The question was academic—he was not about to scurry away merely because gossip was once again turning against him—but if he should find himself dwelling in France, he would certainly miss her.
Miss her a lot.
And her kisses.
* * *
“By the endof the first day of my apprenticeship,” Ann said, “I thought my arms would fall off.”
Henry had taken Benny to the staff hall, where she would choose a hook for her cloak, find clean aprons and caps, and sample the lemonade, ale, and bread and butter that were available to the staff at all hours.
“Your employer was determined to exhaust you?” Colonel Goddard asked.
His patch was firmly back in place, his gaze still on the doorway through which Benny had disappeared. Ann should not be so glad to see him, so willing to offer him her hand to bow over.
But she was.
“The workisexhausting,” she said. “I was given simple tasks, such as churning butter and beating eggs, so I might be useful while watching how the kitchen went on. I was also given tasks that allowed me to sit, which was a mercy when a cook has to be on her feet for as much as eighteen hours at a stretch. But my manners are remiss. May I offer you tea, Colonel?”
Monday morning had dawned windy, wet, and raw, and yet, Colonel Goddard had brought Benny to the club himself. He held his hat in his hands, and he’d gone so far as to unbutton his greatcoat, though he made no move to take it off. Even bareheaded, even under the kitchen’s fifteen-foot ceilings, he was an imposing presence.
“I would not want to put you to any trouble. I should be going, but I’d like to take a proper leave of Benny.”
Other than Henry and one potboy the worse for drink, the kitchen at this hour was deserted. The kitchen staff would wander in at mid-day, the waiters not until late afternoon. Ann had wanted Benny to start when she and the girl could make a thorough tour of the kitchen without an audience.
“I thought Benny and I would begin with a batch of crepes,” Ann said. “She would enjoy sharing them with you, Colonel.”
Ann would enjoy sharing another meal with him.
He circled his hat in his hands. “I thought you said the batter had to rest.”
And he had recalled her words. “I made the batter last night. Benny can learn to cook them this morning and to clean up the mess as well. She can watch me making a pear filling while she beats the heavy cream, and her first lesson as a cook’s apprentice will be delicious and in good company.”
Benny scampered into the kitchen, her apron rolled up at the waist to prevent her hems from dragging, a puffy white cap hiding her braids. The girl was neat as a pin and bore the scents of starch and lavender soap.
“Reporting for duty, Miss Ann.” She snapped off a curtsey and offered a tentative smile.
“First rule,” Ann said, “no running, ever, just like in the stables you love so well. You don’t want to accidently jostle therôtisseurwhen he’s carving his roasts. We might walk swiftly, but we do not run.”
Benny nodded solemnly. “Yes, Miss Ann.”
